Not all the turkeys are in the oven

The night before Thanksgiving and all through the county, police were stirring and looking for bounty.

When the tractor beam of light surrounded our car on Interstate 64, we (along with three other cars) immediately pulled over. It was we they wanted.

After scanning the interior for leftover paraphernalia and trying to imagine what I possibly could have done, I peered at the young expressionless cop as he asked for my driver's license.

"Your registration's expired ma'am." Major bust. Returning with license, he shone his flashlight in my face and said, "Step away from the car, ma'am." My daughter, Lucy, and I clamored out and stood on the edge of the highway, lit up in the headlights like prisoners running for the barbed-wire, as passing drivers gawked and craned.

Policy be damned, it was a cold night. He let us sit in his patrol car as he explained that my license had been revoked a year and a half ago because I hadn't paid a speeding ticket. Lucy eyed all the shiny hardware and asked to play with the handcuffs but was quickly snarled down. When told I couldn't drive, I asked what would happen if I did.

"Jailtime."

"Only if I get caught," I grinned. Not a good idea. No grinning at cops or airport security.

He called my house, but no one answered. Maybe they were getting the turkey pan ready for the bird I was supposed to be bringing. My new husband's parents were...

In a barrage of indecipherable babble, the officer described the infraction to the station house as he drove us the rest of the way home. Another police car soon joined, and we pulled into the driveway with lights blaring and sirens wailing.

The collective consternation and confusion in the house was matched only by the look on my in-laws' faces as they (again) contemplated their son's choice of spouse. As my husband reached the front porch and realized that all was well, he remarked, "Jeez, honey, I only asked you to bring home one turkey."